


A Spark of Clarity in a Very Specific Moment in Time

by Enterthetadpole



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Humor, John Being Understanding, M/M, Nudity, Sherlock Being Sherlock, realized feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25507057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: John is a very observant man. When one lives with Sherlock Holmes, one has to be...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 78
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	A Spark of Clarity in a Very Specific Moment in Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> This is my little gift of love to the fandom today, the ten year anniversary of A Study in Pink! Happy birthday, ASiP! Thank you to all who have welcomed me into the fandom, have beta read and helped me in my insane fretting, and overall have added to what we cheer as Johnlockers and other ships within the world of BBC Sherlock Holmes. 
> 
> Tad

Dr. John Watson - past Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and now current flatmate of 221b Baker Street - was a very observant man. Not as observant as the other occupant of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes, of course. That was practically impossible, but John _did_ notice things more than the average person. 

Especially when those things he observed were directly connected with that same Sherlock Holmes. Especially when those things connected with that same Sherlock Holmes were out of his normal pattern of behavior both in and out of the flat.

This very distinct set of Sherlockian focused observational skills grew out of an organic need for self-preservation. Built from what was close to a decade of slowly realizing that a Sherlock who veered from his usual state of normalcy meant trouble for John, and this trouble could take _many_ physical forms. For example, in what was an otherwise nondescript morning John walked into the kitchen to see Sherlock making tea. This was concerning because Sherlock _never_ made tea. Yet there he was bent over the kettle, wearing his dressing gown, blue striped pajama bottoms, and a very odd expression. The type of expression that an elderly cat might make when introduced to the family’s kitten. A mixture of anger, confusion, and finally a touch of resigned understanding. 

That’s when John gagged because unfortunately, that wasn’t water in that tea kettle. What it actually was John never found out, because that same kettle was thrown into the outside rubbish bin within the next twenty-five seconds. Despite how loud Sherlock could scream about destroyed experiments, John could and absolutely did scream louder.

And because of ruined kettles, disembodied fingers in the freezer, and that one time where a half a bottle of formaldehyde was discovered on the shower sill window, John Watson paid attention to absolutely everything out of the ordinary. 

Perhaps that’s why when John returned to the flat from a very frantic day at the clinic, he paused in the living room area. His coat still half off as he witnessed something so out of character for his insane flatmate, that it was due the respect of a proper gawking at. 

Sherlock rarely slept when _The Work_ was around. Instead, he would seem to go into something resembling a hypnotic trance at odd moments of the day for no less than two minutes but no more than fifteen. It normally involved him staring at whatever object or item that last caught his interest for a little too long of a period to be normal. John secretly called it _Sherlock Rebooting Time_ , which fitted. The man was practically a living and breathing computer anyway. 

During dry spells when there were no cases, and John took more locum work at the clinic to the relief of the overworked staff, Sherlock would spend the majority of his time - as far as John could surmise - in his bedroom. From the occasional grunts and growls coming from that same bedroom, John imagined Sherlock as an annoyed bear settling into an unwanted but begrudgingly accepted hibernation. 

So on the day that John made his way into the flat after a hard day of work to hopefully a bit of crap telly and a nice cup of tea, he was not prepared for a very naked Sherlock Holmes snoring blissfully on the couch. 

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. _Naked_ Sherlock Holmes. Naked Sherlock Holmes on the couch. 

On. The. Couch. 

And it wasn’t the regal type of nudity that was meant for classical paintings where all of the more torrid bits were diminished or softened to allow the viewer to feel comfortable about all the staring. The come hither and slightly heavily lidded eyes that called out more to the beauty of the human form had no place in what John was beholding at the present. 

Instead, Sherlock was sprawled out, legs and arms in all directions. The low and satisfied sighs that belonged in bargain-basement pornos. The posh mouth opened wide and drooling on the Union Jack cushion. The arse in the air almost tauntingly telling John that his flagrant heterosexuality was a lie, and John bloody well knew it. 

Seeing Sherlock like _this_ was meant to be dark and private. Meant for someone who would worship the pale skin and dark curls until both parties came undone, and then drank fluids with the electrolytes needed to do the whole thing again. 

This was the turning of a page with only one of the people involved hearing the paper flipping over. This was the shaking of the foundation of a home already lived in. And at least for Dr. John Watson - past Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and now current flatmate of 221b Baker Street - this was a spark of clarity in a very specific moment in time. 

Not the type of existential crisis that John was looking for this late afternoon. Or _any_ afternoon if he really wanted to be honest about it. He didn’t need more thoughts and feelings crowding his head now to interweave with what was becoming an inevitable conclusion. That what Sherlock was giving him right now was _exactly_ what John wanted, but didn’t know how to ask for properly. 

Sherlock snuffled into the cushions as he twisted his body into another tantalizing position, and that was enough to pull John out of his silent reverie. 

Tea. 

Tea and a nice cold shower would fix this. For now.

But later, they would talk. Or perhaps it would be John who would do all of the talking, for once.


End file.
